by Laird Barron
“Nothing,” Gary replied, trying to convince himself by clearing his throat and swallowing.
Every place has its ghosts.
***
Gladys set up a picnic on one of her mother’s quilts atop the rocky beach, dotted with large basalt rock formations, polished smooth by endless years of determined wave and weather. It wasn’t the most comfortable stretch of sand, but at least the natural bowl of the cove protected it from the fickle tide and the onslaught of dead fish that plagued the Sea Pearl side of the island. After a snack of venison summer sausage and Colby cheese brought from home, lubricated by a clay jug of room temp Jap sake purchased locally, Gary stood and beat his chest, grunting like a silverback, which elicited a giggle from Gladys. He grinned and marched to the water, determined to make contact with this unruly, foreign ocean. Gladys watched him go, trying to remember the exact year when the fullness of his backside suddenly evaporated.
Gary stopped at the lapping water’s edge and dipped in a toe. Not bad. Easing in slowly, the water became surprisingly frigid just yards from the beach, much colder than he expected. Shivering, he waded out to his chest, then pushed off and began to tread water, working forgotten muscles. Gary leaned back and kicked his legs, staring up at the infinite blueness of the sky above. For just a moment, floating weightless, he felt like an infant inside an immense, frigid womb of dark fluid. His dream whispered back to him…Gary smiled for a second…before something long and thick slithered between his paddling feet. He froze, allowing his toes to touch sand, bringing the waterline to just below his upturned mouth. Gary hastily tried to recall the list of sharks native to the area. He came up with nothing other than scenes from Jaws 3D, his favorite installment of the series. Gary held his breath, feeling the tightness of water around his submerged body. Nothing moved, save the gentle rise and fall of the waves. Maybe he imagined it. This island set the mind to strange things… He was just about to continue his swim, when something large and powerful bumped into his lower back, and stayed there, pressing against him, nuzzling… Gary thrashed his arms behind him, striking something hard and ice cold that shot away quickly, the force of its propulsion dragging him under momentarily. He surfaced and swam/ran with a panicked stiffness to the shore.
Breathing hard, he rushed from the water and jogged toward Gladys, who looked like a bell-shaped porcelain doll lying on a stretch of black nothingness. With leaden legs, he finally made it to the blanket, and collapsed next to his wife, who was “sunbathing” under a thick slathering of 50 SPF. “Jesus Christ,” Gary let escape between labored breaths.
“You almost drown again?” Gladys asked without concern behind her absurd sunglasses two generations too large.
“No!” he shot back angrily. She shaded her eyes and peered at him. “No,” he repeated, lowering his voice. “I just…felt something out there.”
“The ocean is full of all sorts of things, honey,” Gladys said simply, putting the issue to rest. “Remember Jonah and the whale?”
Gary rose to his knees and toweled off, keeping an eye on their scooter driver, who smoked and watched them underneath squinted eyes on a cliff above. Gary lay face down on the quilt, not noticing what was higher up, on the sloping hillside in the shadows of the mountains, where a collection of motionless, naked human figures stood and watched the two stark white visitors lie on their black beach below. From this elevated vantage point, the basalt along the shore showed clear evidence of careful cutting and shaping of massive stonework, which lay half buried in the sand. The ruined columns outlined a foundation of an immense structure, as if scattered in a fit of rage by a colossal child in a time when the world was still young and wild.
***
Back at their room, following a silent scooter ride from the far beach, Gary and Gladys showered together for the first time since before their grown children were born, and remarked with laughter at how shower stalls must have been more spacious in simpler times. Their intermingled feet danced over the rivulets of dark grit that collected on the tile, before slithering down the drain, joining their billion-year-old brethren under the sea.
***
Gary found himself inside the same dream, only this time he was an amphibious creature rising from the abyss that had taken him. Higher and higher he climbed, finally to be birthed onto a burnt, sandless shore recently cooled from the fires that raged and smoked on mountaintops looming in the distance a thousand miles high. The domed sky above was copper colored and veined with crimson gold. Triple moons, soft with youth and fat in their close orbit, jockeyed for prominence in the starless expanse of space just above. The Gary creature moved with pain, his soft bones protesting against dry gravity. He struggled for breath, feeling his neck tighten and his chest about to explode. Finally, he coughed, drew air into tiny lungs, and exhaled a roar of victory, declaring himself a prodigy.
Gary awoke from his dream, coughing onto his pillow and scratching at the sides of his neck. He sat up, staring sightlessly at the wall opposite of him. But he wasn’t afraid. He felt like a conqueror. Looking down and noticing the bulge in his boxers, he nudged Gladys awake.
***
In an unusually jovial mood that evening as they dressed for dinner, Gary announced that they were to dine away from the resort, finding the finest place on the island that served only the most authentic Walakean cuisine. Gladys was as shocked as she was overjoyed. “You really mean it, Gare-bear?” she asked.
“Sure do,” he replied proudly. “Let’s soak up a little local color, huh?”
Gladys squealed and hugged him close. “Yay!” She rushed over to the closet. “Let’s really have a safari tonight!”
Immediately feeling uneasy, Gary slumped into a rattan chair and waited for it. Sure enough, he regretted his generous idea as Gladys unveiled a gaudy Hawaiian shirt for him, and a matching dress of the same flowery material for her. He knew it was no use arguing, nor fighting it, for it had arrived. They were THAT couple. They’d be power walking in the local mall every morning in matching sweat suits the day after they landed back in Omaha. Gary’s mood darkened considerably, and his thoughts turned to whiskey.
“You think we can find a place with a luau?” she asked excitedly. “We can pretend we’re Mr. and Mrs. Ho!” “Ho,” indeed. Cuckolded by a dead Hawaiian. Again. Gary excused himself and headed for the front desk, praying to the Christian God for the discovery of another plastic bottle of Black Velvet.
Even this far out, no matter how hard he tried, some things would never change.
***
They set out from the Sea Pearl an hour later. Gary walked several steps ahead of Gladys, who was taking pictures of every neon-lit tourist shop and gaudy storefront she came across. Gary scratched at the tag irritating his neck inside the back of his stiff shirt, which still had that hollow, stale smell of a Taiwanese warehouse. He felt ridiculous. Walking about, in this loud, garish get-up that strategically matched his woman’s. If he had a tail, it would have been tucked deeply between his chaffed legs. Gary glanced behind him at his wife’s enormous purse, wondering if anyone else could hear the clanging of his testicles against her bottle of Avon perfume better suited for pest eradication. Walking alone, wrapped inside the old, comfortable blanket of boozy gloom, Gary searched for the first place that looked presentable, just wanting to get off this strange, black-rimmed island that seemed so at odds with the rest of the civilized world. Honeymoons are for suckers. He was right the first time.
Rounding a corner, Gary came across a glowing sign for the Seven Seas Grill, nestled between two large warehouses. He peered inside, and saw that the joint was sparsely populated and seemed more or less clean. Good enough. Gary prepped his case and turned to find Gladys, but she was nowhere to be found. He darted his eyes up and down the cramped street, feeling an unexpected rush of fear.
Gary headed back around the corner, and found Gladys bent over a legless transient propped up on the curb. She handed the wrinkled old man a few dollars, rewarded with a toothless
grin. Gary’s face soured. He called out to her, and she trundled over. “That sweet old man just gave me the most wonderful thing.” Gladys held up a spiny shell hanging from a hemp string, featuring a six-fold circular pattern shimmering bright yellow.
“Put that away,” Gary admonished, a bit too harshly.
Gladys was taken aback. “Why? It’s so pretty, and that old man told me that it would protect us on the island. Isn’t that neat? He didn’t even have any legs.”
Gary scowled. “It’s pagan jewelry. ‘Neat’ has nothing to do with it. You think Pastor Thune would want you wearing that around town? Come on! Toss it out.”
Pouting, Gladys walked to the nearest overflowing trashcan and laid it gently on the pile. Gary was distracted, his mind delving into his memory, trying to uncover his certainty about this cheap trinket. Gladys glumly rejoined Gary. “Party pooper,” she mumbled.
Gary pulled at his itchy shirt. “Let’s go eat.”
***
Gary and Gladys were seated in a corner booth next to a murky aquarium. Cuttlefish swirled along the bottom, hiding from the sputtering light, while tiny eels slithered to and fro, taunting their older descendents. A sea snail clung to the inside of the glass, unable to keep up with the filth, or had merely quit trying.
Gladys read the menu aloud to no one in particular. Gary stared into the tank, once again remembering the death scene on the beach, remembering a tiny sliver of his dream…
“So, what will it be?” The question caught Gary off guard, and he jerked his head to find a tall, darkly handsome Central Asian man who definitely didn’t look local standing in front of them. Still Asian, though. Asian enough. Gary glanced at his wife, flexed the faded green anchor tattoo on his beefy forearms and opened the menu.
“What’s the best thing in the house?” Gladys asked, avoiding her husband’s glare.
The waiter smiled broadly. “Devil Fish, ma’am. Best in all the islands.”
Gladys’s permed hair seemed to shiver with excitement. “Oooo, that sounds yummy, doesn’t it, Gare?”
Gary shook his head, squinting at the prices on the right side of the menu. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Oh, poo,” Gladys chided. “Live a little.”
Gary glowered and handed the menu to the waiter without looking at him. “I’ll have the special.”
The waiter nodded and turned to Gladys, who continued scanning the menu like it was the goddamn Rosetta Stone. “You’re supposed to let a lady order first,” she said, as if an afterthought, but which clearly wasn’t.
Gary cracked his neck. “You have any whiskey here?”
“No sir,” he answered coolly. “Only rum.”
“Oh goody,” Gladys clapped. “I’ll have a Mai Tai, AND the Devil Fish.” Gladys handed off the menu and smiled sweetly at her husband. A barb dipped in honey.
***
According to Gary’s Timex, the food arrived exactly twenty-eight minutes after the waiter disappeared into the silent kitchen. Gladys was already on her third Mai Tai, served in a ceramic cup fashioned into the mouth of an exotic fish. Gary was absently rubbing his stomach that burned with sugary indigestion from nine shots of cheap rum. This is what you get for traveling, he ruminated dourly with a burp.
The waiter set a plate in front of Gary that featured a thick, inscrutable slab of grilled marine life surrounded by seashells and a giant clutch of parsley. “What’s this?” Gary demanded.
“Special,” the waiter assured him with a pleasant smile.
“I mean, what is it?”
“Catch of the day,” the waiter shrugged as he set a sizzling plate of braised Devil Fish in front of Gladys.
Gary was about to protest, when his wife cut him off. “Don’t complain, Gary. You get what you pay for.”
The waiter nodded and bowed slightly. “Bon appetit,” he said in a perfect—and perfectly annoying—French accent as he retreated.
Gary frowned at Gladys as he snapped open his napkin. “Can’t you be on my side, just once?”
Gladys slurped up the last of her Mai Tai. “Oh, don’t be silly.” She held up her glass to the waiter hovering by the bar, as Gary picked up his knife and fork and tucked into his meal. The skin was a bit rubbery and tough, resisting Gary’s efforts.
“Shark,” Gary concluded aloud. “I like shark.”
“Of course you do, dear,” Gladys said absently as she received her fresh Mai Tai from the waiter with a suggestive smile.
“Gonna need a bigger boat,” Gary mumbled to himself with a chuckle as he sawed with his knife. Gladys just hummed tunelessly to herself. Finally, the plated skin parted under the blade and revealed a pinkish flesh underneath. Gary frowned, cut off a slice and put it in his mouth. He chewed hesitantly at first, but found the flavor surprisingly agreeable. “Not bad,” he declared proudly. “I guess I do get what I pay for.” Gary cut off a larger hunk, smiling as he chewed. “How’s Satan’s ding dong over there?” he asked, poking his knife at her plate.
“Absolutely sinful,” Gladys enunciated in that actory way that came out far too often when she drank. She took another exaggerated bite while keeping wobbly eye contact with their swarthy waiter.
***
By the end of the night, Gary felt like he was warming up to the island. The dinner was spectacular, and reasonably priced. Even the bar bill was a pittance, as their waiter seemed to have comped half the drinks poured with a heavy hand. Island hospitality, Gary reckoned. Maybe he was wrong about this place. They left the restaurant and headed back to the resort. Gladys seemed heated up, so Gary let her go on to the room, determined to comb the shops for whiskey.
***
Gary only made it a few blocks before his extremities turned to jelly and he pitched to the sandy pavement, skinning his hands and tearing the knees of his linen trousers. The heartburn had dissipated in his notoriously iron gut, but his head felt like it was packed in cotton. Worse, his heart was pounding like he had shotgunned a pot of Folgers. Sweat coated his brow, soaking through the flowers of his stiff shirt, making it feel like an exoskeleton he needed to shed. He crawled to his feet and clutched a corroded street lamp for support.
He spit something thick and unnatural and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The streets were deserted, but he felt eyes on him, hundreds of them, and not all of them in pairs, peering out through grotesque pineapples from deep in the dark places away from the isolated circles of light and the neon glow of the storefronts. One window display featured naked female mannequins, arms arranged into obscene poses, topped by hideous tribal masks. He hadn’t seen this on the way home, but it was all he could see now. Distended necks and tiny breasts with nipples like fingers. Unnatural, primal postures as suggestive as they were threatening. The vacant eyes that seemed to have depth and purpose shot their darkness deep into him, and he reeled, falling backwards without moving. He saw clouds of exploding napalm flatten smears of green, rising triumphant into a mushrooming horror show of angry soot and burned trees and skin and innards and dreams that were no different than his own. White phosphorus melted into the ground, eating up the bones of ancestors and their buried secrets. Gary clawed at his face and blinked his eyes dry, only to see lolling tongues quiver from underneath plastic teeth and lick toward the window, tasting the glass and streaking it with blackish gore.
He turned to flee the other way when he stumbled over something lying in the gutter. At his feet was the body of the legless transient, his skin gray, as if mummified, his mouth wrenched open sideways, gums crawling with insects. A final scream, or a last desperate bite.
Gary careened back up the sidewalk, hoping he was heading in the right direction. Behind him, the poorly lit street narrowed, waiting.
***
After what seemed like hours, Gary threw open the door to their room. Gladys was snoring in a rattan easy chair, dressed in a crooked grass skirt and bunched-up pink nylons, a string of pooka shells balled in her hand, succumbing to the Mai Tais mid-primp. G
ary collapsed to the floor, clothing soaked, heaving for breath.
“I’m sick,” he wheezed, trying to wake her. “I’m—” His voice failed.
Gary slumped into the bathroom and pawed at the switch, jarring the six walls into painful, sudden white light. He propped himself up in front of the mirror and saw bloodshot, yellowing eyes staring back at him like a demented stranger.
He bent down over the toilet bowl and held on tight. He hated vomiting, but he had to get this liquor out of him. Just like when he was twelve, when he took on an entire fifth of gin for his debut. He had almost died then. That was before he went pro. Maybe he had lost a step. He just had to get through this and start fresh tomorrow. Man up and do the deed, goddamn it.
Gary stuck his finger deep into this throat, which gurgled and contracted, as his stomach prepared to empty against its will. He pushed deeper, eyes gushing tears, until his guts finally seized and pushed upwards. Gary leaned into the bowl, his body clenching as if shot through with a cattle prod. Paralyzed with the effort, he choked a scream into a high-pitched rasp, yet nothing but foamy saliva came out. He tried again, and only quivering drool dripped through his strangled shriek into the toilet water. He sat back, gulping air, fighting back the tremor as his body attempted to resume normal functioning. The ceiling spun, the water stains in the tiles taking on demonic shapes. Goat-faced faerie folk fucking on clouds. A whale swallowing a city. Someone must have spiked his cocktails with enough LSD to melt a buffalo. The waiter. That fucking waiter… Gladys…
Anger burning through his revulsion, Gary bellied up to the commode and jammed his finger down his esophagus, nearly fitting his fist inside his mouth, stretching and cracking the skin around it. Jaw wrenched sideways… Crawling insects…
